


What Have I Done

by Lovefushsia



Series: The Lying Detective (shorts) [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, John knows straight away it was wrong, M/M, Remorse, Reworking of that scene, Self-Loathing, Sherlock Series 4 Spoilers, Sweet Sherlock, by going into doctor mode, he attempts to make things better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-16 14:52:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9276854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lovefushsia/pseuds/Lovefushsia
Summary: Straight after the attack, John can't believe what he's done. He takes care of Sherlock.This isn't a fix it, because I wish it had never happened at all, but for me, this is the least that John could have done afterwards. Not just walked away.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I had to try something to work through what I'm feeling about John and the attack on his best friend. I'm not over it, I can't see past the fact that it was abusive and awful and Sherlock just accepted it. John needs to apologise and understand what he did. Sherlock needs to know that he didn't and doesn't deserve that treatment from anyone.

“Oh God, what– what have I done...” John’s legs gave way, he crumpled from within the arms surrounding him, holding him back. Sherlock lay there, blood dripping from his already swollen mouth... oh fuck... no, no - “No– Sherlock...,” he let out in a whisper.

John crawled back towards him on hands and knees. “Leave him be,” he heard from behind him, as Sherlock let out a groan.

“No, it’s ok - let him do what he wants,” Sherlock murmured brokenly. “He’s entitled. I killed his wife.”

John shook his head, trying to clear it of Sherlock’s words, of the vision of what John had done to him. But it was real. He let out a cry of agony and fell forward on weakened arms, hands pressing into the cold tiles, staring at knuckles marred by his best friend’s own blood.

“No,” he whispered harshly. “It’s not true, Sherlock–” He raised his streaming face to look again into those devastated eyes. “You didn’t– I’m s-sorry,” he blurted, tears dashing onto his splayed fingers.

He raised a hand and wiped at his face, then crawled a little further and touched Sherlock’s shoulder, gentle, _fuck_ of course gentle - this was _Sherlock_ \- how could John have lost it so badly?

He turned to spit out over his shoulder, “Get out! Get out of here.” He heard shuffling feet, someone making a call, and the door closed and they were alone.

“Sherlock,” he whispered again, really not sure that he even had the right to say this man’s name anymore. But he had to press on, he had to make this better, in some small way. His hand drifted onto Sherlock’s bloodied cheek, cupping carefully. John screwed his eyes closed, fresh tears squeezing out through his lashes. _Stop it, get it together man - stop feeling sorry for yourself_. He took a sharp breath through his nose and drew some strength from somewhere. “Can you sit up?” he asked softly.

Sherlock was shaking, there wasn’t a part of him that was still and John wanted to wrap him up, take it all away - the pain he had caused, the pain Sherlock had put himself through - again all because of John and his fucking _selfish_ stupidity. He kept on berating himself as he tucked both his hands under each of Sherlock’s arms and got onto one knee, one foot to the floor so he could lever Sherlock into a sitting position. He was thin, leaner than he had been. He pushed the word frail away because Sherlock was strong - he could fight this. He had to.

When John could see the damage more clearly it forced him to think more clearly, to think about Sherlock and not himself.

He looked around, managed to hook a chair with his foot and dragged it over beside them. “Ok, come on, up you come, that’s it.” He got Sherlock sitting and knelt on the floor at his side.

Sherlock didn’t make a sound as John examined him, checking his eyes - blood shot already, painful to even look at; gently smoothed back the hair from his forehead. He slid the coat from one shoulder, noticing how much more roomy it was, sliding it off carefully. Sherlock sat there, shivering as John began to unfasten the buttons on his ruined shirt. John shuddered as he uncovered his friend’s chest, grazes and bruises covered his torso - John had done that. He was a monster, no doubt about it. To be able to do this to his own best friend, the man he cared about most - who so cared about him. The tears began again, and as he reached out to place a finger tip to Sherlock’s bruised ribs, Sherlock’s hand came up to cover it.

“John,” he whispered, and John blinked in surprise. “I’m ok, let’s just... take a moment.”

John left his hand in Sherlock’s as Sherlock lowered them to his knee. He nodded once, catching his breath again, swallowing on a full outburst.

“Don’t do this to yourself, please,” Sherlock murmured.

“Do this– to _my_ self?” John said, voice cracking. He looked down, mortified, at himself, at Sherlock’s generosity despite what John had done to him. “Sherlock, I had no right... none of this is your fault, I’m sorry, I’m sorry...” he trailed off, letting the tears run freely again.

He felt a hand on his arm and looked up, drew in another breath, stealing himself. “Don’t tell me it’s ok, it’s not ok - this,” he gestured to Sherlock, drawing a gentle finger over Sherlock’s bruised cheek, the one showing the least damage. “This is inexcusable... unforgivable,” he whispered.

Sherlock took his hand again. “I’ll be the judge of that,” Sherlock said, and John cringed away. How could he be so quick to let John get away with this shit? He didn’t deserve this man, he knew that he probably never had.  

John slipped his hand slowly out of his friend’s grasp. “You’re not thinking clearly. Can we talk about this later?” He turned to a side cupboard, rooting through for supplies and bringing them on a metal tray back to Sherlock’s chair. He dabbed and disinfected, showing as much care as he ever had, flinching along with Sherlock every time, heart frantic in his chest each time he dropped another soiled cotton bud onto the tray. Sherlock’s eyes were on his the whole time but John couldn’t meet them. Get through this... then think about the consequences once Sherlock was ok. But he couldn’t see how they would ever be able to get passed this. John wouldn’t be able to forgive himself and if Sherlock forgave him... well, then John would still feel incredible guilt.

He sat back once he had finished. Sherlock’s face looked slightly better without so much blood but he was still bruised, still shaking. There was a butterfly stitch on his eyebrow. He looked a mess. John had contributed massively to that mess. He could still attempt to help with this drug thing though. He must.

“You should stay here, let them take care of you. You need to get off the drugs.”

“No, I want to go home. With you.”

“What? Why?” John gasped out, suddenly thinking that perhaps Sherlock wanted to make John suffer more by having him witness his recovery. But this was Sherlock. He wasn’t the one to childishly hold a grudge against a friend for weeks on end, to cut them from his life as if he had no care for them in the first place.

Sherlock was looking at him, huge eyes, puffy and sad. John had no answers. No way to explain this to himself. And worst of all, Sherlock had accepted it as if he deserved it. John felt sick.

“I don’t want anyone else. You’re the best man to take care of me.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m not,” John assured him. “I can’t take care of myself, I...” he couldn’t finish, put his head in his hands.

“Maybe–” Sherlock faltered, and John waited, just breathing. “Maybe, we can try it together. Just the two of us.”

John looked up, “Are you serious?” he choked out. “After what I did to you?”

“John, please, get me out of here.”

He didn’t question it again. If he was getting a second chance here he would take it. Sherlock was a better man than John could ever hope to be. John would make every effort to become someone his friend deserved, even if he couldn’t even see the beginning of the path to choose right now.

John stood up, held out his hand, tentatively, no clue now as to whether Sherlock should or would accept it. Sherlock reached up and took hold of John’s hand, he could feel the tremble as they touched. He managed to meet Sherlock’s eye as he put a hand under his elbow, steadying him.

“It’s shit, John, but it’ll be ok,” Sherlock said quietly.       

“How do you know that?” John asked.

“Because you are a good man, and we can get through this,” Sherlock told him, with such certainty John couldn’t hold in his tears.

He huffed out his disagreement, but couldn’t find any words. He wiped at his eyes so that he could see, wrapped his arm carefully around Sherlock’s waist, and clung to the hope that Sherlock was right.


End file.
